


Half-Pint Imitation

by jerry_duty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Robot Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 09:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerry_duty/pseuds/jerry_duty
Summary: “It’s Saturday, lieutenant. And it’s 9:43 in the morning. The temperature outside is nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill of one degree Fahrenheit. Light snows will continue throughout the day, growing heavier in the afternoon.”Hank snorted and rubbed his thumb along the dimple as it deepened. “Good thing we got the day off."





	Half-Pint Imitation

The morning, and wakefulness, came slowly to him in one sifting layer of awareness and then another. Hank often slept in but rarely in comfort. No compelling rush, now, to hasten the work of waking up. It was February, 2040, and outside Detroit wore a new, heavy coat of snow, but inside the battered two bedrooms and one bath house where Hank Anderson lived the world was small and cozy and, for a time, content. 

A warm and very solid lump embraced him beneath the comforters and the tangled sheets. Six feet of highly advanced, custom built robotics curled along his right side. Legs entwined around his own leg, trapping it. Hank was half-hard, dick chafing pleasantly against his threadbare boxers, and not especially worried about it. You couldn’t worry about a thing like that when you shared a bed with someone who liked to suck that dick.

An arm made a band around his gut. Connor’s head was cradled against Hank’s breast, and Hank’s arm, around Connor’s shoulders, had telltale nerve-prickling. He’d sweat all along that side, tacky sweat. In the chilly air of morning, as the heater struggled as it did every winter to do its work, the over-heated flush was not unpleasant. 

Hank shifted his pin-pricking fingers in a long sweep across Connor’s shoulder, the manufactured muscular swell of his upper arm. Connor stirred. He did this without any of the drowsy tiptoeing to consciousness that Hank walked through.

“Y’wanna roll off my arm?” He asked it without ire, and with another sweep of his fingers across the synthetic flesh, flesh that did not sweat or goose pimple from the cold. 

Connor hummed and, rising, tipped his head as if in thought. The LED at his temple glowed steady and blue. He shifted so that he could rest his chin at the center of Hank’s chest, on top of the faded-out tattoo of Saint Elisabeth of Hungary he’d worn through both passes at college and then the police academy. Connor moved with deliberation. Every move he made, he made with purpose. So there was a design to his legs sliding along Hank’s thigh, a reason to his rising off Hank’s arm only to slip onto Hank like an especially heavy blanket. 

Hank grunted. Connor, spreading one hand low over Hank’s hip and curling the fingers of the other in the grey hairs of Hank’s chest: he curled the very corner of his mouth maybe two or three degrees northerly. The dimple nestled in his cheek peeked out at Hank, who flexed his hand as the feeling crept knife-sharp back into it.

“You got a lot of nerve,” he said, lifting that hand, “smiling at me like that when you woke me up early on this nice … what day is it?” He fitted his thumb to the dimple. It matched the divot perfectly. 

Connor’s smile creased at both ends. The long unbroken wrinkles in his forehead creased, too. 

He said, “It’s Saturday, lieutenant. And it’s 9:43 in the morning. The temperature outside is nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill of one degree Fahrenheit. Light snows will continue throughout the day, growing heavier in the afternoon.”

Hank snorted and rubbed his thumb along the dimple as it deepened. “Good thing we got the day off. Ah, shit. Gonna have to dig the car out.”

Connor hummed, agreeing. The fingers creeping along Hank’s hip slipped under the waistband of his boxers. Those fingers were traveling inch by inch south and in-land, heading for an inevitable interception with the softer, looser skin at the inside of his thigh and from there— Well. 

Hank said, “Sure you know what you’re doing there, Connor?” and he palmed Connor’s cheek, fingers brushing that artfully tousled mess of brown hair, his ear, the LED that winked at him. 

“Your concern is appreciated, lieutenant,” said Connor. “But unnecessary. After all, as one of CyberLife’s most advanced investigative prototypes—”

“Oh, Christ.”

“I adapt quickly, and every experience improves my…” Another show of thought. His eyes rolled to the upmost right corner. An artful tick of his brow. He looked half-sidelong at Hank then. “Performance.”

A knot had filled Hank’s gut. He could have called it frustration; it wasn’t. A couple years ago, maybe a day or two after they’d first met, Connor had given him a similar look underneath an umbrella at Chicken Feed. Hank had withdrawn as if he’d thought Connor might bite and maybe he had thought that. Now, well: yeah. Connor might bite. He had that look about him. Something hungry. Like how a shark might eyeball a seal. 

Hank smoothed his left hand down the long line of Connor’s back. Connor rose at the chest, legs spreading to either side of Hank’s thighs. The weight of him pinned Hank at the hips. Blood was spooling hotly in Hank’s dick. Again? Three years ago Hank Anderson had resigned himself to celibacy. Now here he was trying to remember if he’d ever before in his life had so much sex in a month as he had the last week.

“Sounds like you’re talking a lotta shit,” said Hank. 

Connor grinned. His teeth came out. He had an awful lot of them, all very square and very white. If Hank could have told himself that Connor hadn’t heard the rough catch in his voice, he wouldn’t have believed Hank anyway. 

Without any demure pretense, Connor said, “Of course. I’ll accede to your expertise, Hank,” and he gripped Hank’s swelling cock in his hand. 

There were things about Connor that weren’t like anyone else Hank had ever fooled around with. No shit. Nobody else he’d fucked had built-in wireless and a crime lab in their tongue. Morning sex as a rule was all about making a little mess, but with Connor, whew. He could have just blown Connor’s fingers while Connor pulled him off. Maybe it was the last, lingering tingling in his hand, or the snow building up on the window sill, or fuck, just the prospects of a day off work. 

Connor stroked him, fingers sliding smooth and too-dry over the soft and sensitive skin of Hank’s dick. He said, “The lube. Lieutenant.”

“Oh, am I working here?” 

“We don’t have to use it,” said Connor. One of those moods flashed over him. “I like when you wince every time you sit.” And he tightened his hand, just for the one stroke.

“No, you don’t.” Hank snorted as he grabbed for the bottle on the bedside desk. “You make that face like I caught you licking the trash.”

Connor’s LED flicked red briefly. He took the lube from Hank and made to shrug off the comforter. 

“Nah,” said Hank. “Leave it on.” He grabbed the sloping ends at Connor’s hips and pulled the comforter up, over the both of them.

In the dimmer light, in the shadow, Connor’s temple glowed. It made strange and ghostly lights of his dark eyes. Hank’s heart beat. Connor loomed over him. Six feet tall, one hundred and eighty-two pounds of steel, plastic, synthetic muscle, processors and alien organs, conductive thirium. Artistically freckled across his face and shoulders. No nipples, no navel. Hairless everywhere but the top of his head. 

Connor pulled the boxers down. Hank shuffled awkwardly to get them down his legs, off his feet. The cap clicked. Cold lube, smeared without delay down Hank’s cock. He hissed at it. Connor murmured an apology and stroked gently. Gently. Then harder, his grip tightening. His LED ticked yellow: processing. Processing. Thousands of highly attuned sensors in his fingers and hands worked on everything he touched, be it fabrics (he hated the texture of cotton balls), fluids (tongue flashing as he licked between his fingers), anything at all. The thought of Connor analyzing the feel of Hank’s dick in his hand made Hank hiss and work his jaw.

Connor leaned lower. His lips were very near to the knob in Hank’s throat. He said, “Would you like me to use my mouth?”

“Jesus.”

“I’d like to use my mouth.” 

His tongue flicked out. The tip brushed at that knob, as Hank swallowed and it pulled. Connor’s hand was artificially warmed over his cock. Each stroke now was smooth and even, a slow movement that had Hank spreading his legs and so spreading Connor’s legs too.

Hank shook his head. It was very difficult to do so. He knew it would be good, Connor under the sheets and between his legs, swallowing his cock to the root and holding him there till Hank, pushing fifty-six, called him cocksucker and an asshole and plastic prick, and Connor scraped those perfect, unsettling teeth so that Hank shuddered and – balls tight in Connor’s squeezing hand – came down his throat. The thought of how good it would be, how much Connor liked to eat his come and sit up lips wet and cheeks unflushed, smug as a cat with a belly full of fish, _God_. He almost said yes. 

But he shook his head. Connor frowned. He felt it against his neck. Hank took his hand from Connor’s unremarkable, beloved ass, and wormed it between them. He rapped two fingers at the heart of Connor, that thoracic juncture. 

“Open up.”

“It’ll stain the sheets.”

“I’ll clean ‘em.”

“You won’t.”

Hank nuzzled at Connor’s temple. Fair was fair: he gave a broad swipe of his tongue over the LED. No faint electric shock. Only cool metal. Connor shuddered like Hank had licked the balls he didn’t have. Smooth as a doll down there. 

“I’ll clean the damn sheets. Promise.”

“Should I get that in writing?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Boy Scout,” said Connor but he was smiling again as he lifted his head from Hank’s throat.

Hank gave in to the temptation. That damn dimple. He lingered there, lips against it as it deepened. 

“C’mon. Even Steven.”

“You know I don’t need it.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t need you to yank me off either. But I want it.” He tapped those fingers again. “I want this. Yeah? Okay? That okay with you?”

“Don’t be an asshole, lieutenant,” said Connor, and Hank laughed. Whoever had designed the crow’s feet at Connor’s eyes, Hank owed them drinks and a good steak dinner. 

Still, Connor leaned back, resting his weight temporarily on Hank’s thighs. He left off Hank’s dick to reach with both hands, one shining slicked with lube and pre-come and the other dry, to his chest. Desire, at the sight of that gleaming hand contrasted with the dry skin, made Hank’s gut tighten. That this was the hand that touched him. That this was the body that held him still. All of it, bound to the person that— Yes. The person that loved him.

How the synth-skin worked, Hank didn’t know. Connor had tried once to explain it to him, some technobabble about hard light and electrical impulses to simulate texture. Hank didn’t get it. Whatever. He watched fascinated anyway as Connor manipulated some unseen sensors and the skin at the dead center of his chest parted. White and grey plastic showed. Connor nimbly activated the diagnostic routine that opened the rectangular panel protecting his secondary pump. The panel pushed outward then slid neatly to the right, coming to stop over the neighboring plastic. 

The pump was a circle. It glowed electric blue on the outside edge. 

“Mr Tony Stark,” said Hank, as he said every time. 

As he said in return every time, Connor said, “Yes, Miss Potts?” and laughed when Hank put on an aggrieved sigh.

The very first time they had done this, Hank had lost his erection and nearly gone up to call the new CyberLife maintenance line even as Connor insisted it wasn’t at all like bleeding. Of all the differences, it was this that Hank found most unsettling: the blue blood, for an android, was a multipurpose fluid. Thirium diluted, it was spit. In a denser, more concentrated state it protected artificial organs and the multitude of dedicated processors. Conductive medium, internal lubricant. 

Even now it still unsettled him, to see that first rim of thick thirium expressed as he ran his thumb along the outside of the pump’s casing. A moment’s queasiness. He pushed past it. Connor shivered minutely. He fumbled for Hank’s cock again, to squeeze it fatly in his hand. Dipping his head, he pressed his teeth flat against Hank’s clavicle and shivered again at the next touch.

So, lieutenant, what’ve you got? Connor wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop processing. Why else did he start drinking like he did? Shannon said, “Find a better way to shut your brain up,” and she wasn’t wrong but he just kept on drinking till that wasn’t enough and he started dancing with that one bullet in the chamber. That was when she left. Yeah. Couldn’t blame her for it. Back when he walked the beat he’d tell the girls with the bruises swelling their eyes _you can’t drown yourself trying to pull someone walking out into the water._

They shifted together in bed under the sheets. Connor went willingly to his back beneath Hank. The heft of Hank’s cock rubbed against Connor’s thigh and Hank, huffing, sweat in his chest hair, bent to catch the slowly budding thirium on his tongue. Connor made three clicking noises and gripped Hank’s saggy ass, a hand digging into each cheek.

The thirium was sour-sharp in Hank’s mouth. He slid the tips of two fingers under the surrounding casing. Connor buzzed. A faint electrical shock zinged between Hank’s fingers; it stung his tongue. He nuzzled the edge, and Connor, click-clicking, rotated the joints at his hips and hooked his legs around Hank. There was no melting desperation to it, only a cephalopodic possession: to hold Hank to him with that unforgiving steel skeleton. 

Connor ground his smooth crotch against Hank’s slick cock and Hank cursed into Connor’s opened chest. A laugh, the sound generated artificially without mechanical movement. Deliberately Connor rubbed against him even as Hank plucked at the pump casing with his short-cut nails to make Connor burr. 

Easy. Easy, like it could be like that. Like it could be like that every day. They fought like cats sometimes. Hank cut back on the whiskey. Sometimes he slipped. Sometimes he slipped a lot. Kept the gun locked in the box in the closet but he thought about it, and god damn it, Connor, I just want a fucking beer. Connor’s face would go perfectly still, and Hank would know he’d hurt him but in that moment he didn’t care; he was glad; and Hank knew all the way down in the gut of him the truth he never forgot, that he was a miserable sack of shit, that he was _a bad person_ , that he didn’t deserve Connor. Connor, Christ. Connor nosed into everything, had to know everything, struggled to understand that boundaries existed. He didn’t comprehend privacy. He’d read your e-mail. He’d check your phone. Wanted more. Everything a puzzle to work out.

But wasn’t it true, that some puzzles solved themselves? Wasn’t it true that it could be easy? That you could fight with someone and at the end of the day they’d forgive you and you’d forgive them. You could love them. Even now. Even here. Even with all the things you’ve lost. They could touch you with their hands and their lips and the ferocious strength of their body, and you could think: it can be like this, still. You lost so much but here, now, is this person. Yes. This person, who touches you. Who loves you. You haven’t lost them yet. Maybe, you think, as you touch them too. Maybe: well, who’s to say you can’t keep them? 

“Ha-a-ank,” said Connor. “Lie-u-u-ten-ant.”

Hank fucked his tongue into that thoracic cavity, thirium spilling sour, sour, biting across his teeth. Connor’s fingers gripped painfully at his ass. Then, with a single, tremendous, shuddering movement, he unhooked his legs and rolled them over on their sides. Hank parted from him. His beard was sticky. His lips, too. Connor was wild-looking. Blue staining his broad-made, inhuman chest. Hank’s dick ached with his heartbeat. 

Connor turned himself in Hank’s arms, a smooth and athletic motion. His back pressed to Hank’s heaving chest. He grabbed Hank’s hands and brought them around to his own chest. His thighs clenched. He pressed his ass, hard, to Hank’s cock. Detroit’s youngest lieutenant got the idea. 

A sense of urgency penetrated the warm space they’d made under the comforter, there on that February morning. Hank fucked his cock between Connor’s tightly held thighs. Too dry, now. _Shit._ Still good. Fuck. The fretful look Connor would give him every time he’d have to adjust his chafed dick even in his loosest sweatpants, _fuck_. To be looked at like that. To think Connor would frown but still rub aloe along Hank’s flaccid cock that night as Hank grumbled.

He jerked harder, helpless. The comforter, the sheets, they muffled the ringing smack of each thrust. So, too, the furious buzzing sounds Connor made as he clutched Hank’s palm in his hand and fucked himself with Hank’s curling fingers. Hank buried his face against Connor’s freckled shoulder. His cock felt swollen, over-hard, his balls tight. He wanted, yeah, that explosive burst of pleasure, but he wanted it with Connor; he wanted—Connor—

“Connor,” he whispered, “Connor. Connor. Ah, fuck. Shit! Connor.”

His fingers squelched in the thirium. Connor shuddered. Hank’s fingers were half-numb, the thirium sparking around the casing. 

Half-delirious, his voice a whirring disaster, Connor said, “Me. Me. Me,” and turned his head just enough that Hank could make out the shadowed flash of teeth. 

Hank chuckled. It was wrung from him. He said, “Yeah, you, asshole,” and Connor bent his head back at an entirely improbable angle and rubbed his hair against Hank’s nose. Hank sneezed; it jerked his body hard, and—

“God damn it, Connor,” he managed after the stars had faded some. He was panting harshly. His dick was still lingeringly hard. A profound lassitude eased through his body. 

“Lieutenant,” Connor burred. “Hank. I can feel you on my thighs.”

If he could have managed another spurt he would have gladly given it. Instead he held Connor tighter still and drove all the fingers of his hand around the pump, so as to clutch it whole in his hand for only the briefest fraction of a second. It was long enough. Connor let out a dissonant electronic screech and slammed his head back against Hank’s shoulder hard enough it would surely bruise. 

The LED flickered. Wrung-out and sticky-sore, Hank still fumbled to push the protective panel back into place. It went smoothly, resisting only a moment as he shifted it from pushing over to pushing in. His fingers were dark blue against Connor’s white chassis. 

Gradually Connor jerked in Hank’s arms. His body verified the stability of each joint. He clicked again in his throat. Once more. The LED flashed yellow, yellow, blue. He opened his eyes with a flutter of lashes. Hank’s heart thumped fat and happy in his breast.

“We should clean up,” Hank mumbled.

Connor stretched his arms out from the comforter. “No.” He began stretching each of his fingers through a complicated series of bends. The joints made inhumanly sharp angles. Hank wondered that this no longer made him feel like he’d puke. Christ. The things love did to you.

“My hands look like a murder scene.”

Connor hummed. He parted his thighs. Hank winced, imagining the settling come gone gummy. Connor, though, looked pleased. 

“C’mon. I got blood in my beard.”

Unbothered, Connor turned once more in Hank’s arms. He looked fondly up at Hank but allowed, “Sumo will need a walk.”

“We should get up.”

“I did let him out at three, and seven.”

“And then you came back to bed.” Hank smoothed his hands up Connor’s back. The artificial muscle mesh under the synthetic skin and flexible plastic chassis stayed solid. Hank’s eyes were drooping. “What. To watch me sleep?”

“To review current casefiles,” said Connor, “and to read. And to watch you sleep.”

“Freak,” Hank grumbled. “What’s so exciting about that. And yeah, yeah, I know I snore already.”

Connor studied him. He pressed a fingertip to the corner of Hank’s mouth then lifted his face to press a kiss there, heedless of the thirium drying on Hank’s lips and in his beard. Hank closed his eyes. Silently the snow fell around them. Somewhere in the house, Sumo wandered about, looking for another breakfast under the couch. 

“When you sleep,” Connor murmured, “you make this smile.” His lips swept against Hank’s skin as he spoke. “You never smile like that when you’re awake. Or almost never. And when you do, there’s this… dimple. Right here.” He kissed him lingeringly there again. “It makes me feel…”

Hank was smiling, stupidly. “Makes you feel crazy.”

“Yes,” said Connor, “but how did you know?”

Hank opened his eyes. He cupped Connor’s face in his hands, blue-bloodied and rough, a workman’s hands, and he kissed Connor. He kissed him properly. The way he wanted to every god damned time Connor frowned at him across a room or made some smartass remark. 

He withdrew. Connor looked somehow dazed; then his eyes refocused, sharply on Hank. 

“Stick around, kid,” said Hank, “and maybe I’ll let you in on the secret.”

Connor covered Hank’s left hand with his own. His gaze was steady. He didn't blink, only looked at Hank. “I’d like that,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) For the usual suspects, with love. #WeAreAllJerry
> 
> 2) The title is from the song Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered, written by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart. [I like Ella Fitzgerald's cover best](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fzZ4l2H5-w).
> 
> 3) This fic was roughly inspired by [this lovely fanart](https://dz013.tumblr.com/post/176306589669) by Tumblr user dz013. I've had it open in a tab for about two weeks now, I think.
> 
> 4) David Cage is a jackass, a hack, and a racist. Don't give him money or kudos. If you happen to be David Cage and you are reading this: you're a jackass, a hack, and a racist.
> 
> 5) Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos, left comments, and made bookmarks or subscribed. I haven't been replying to comments and I apologize for that. Life is a mess right now. Please know that it has meant the world to me. Writing has been difficult for me for the last year so being able to write at all has been ... yeah. Thank you.


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